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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24836611">the composition of change</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlessea/pseuds/starlessea'>starlessea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, anyways this is just really pros-y hsjjdjd, author uses too many metaphors, been aiming for a more experimental style and i hope it comes off ok?, hinata is referenced but not enough to warrant a tag i don't think, this is more kunimi pining than a relationship btw djjsj, this stemmed from a poem scrap though so what else would be expected</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:15:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24836611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlessea/pseuds/starlessea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Kunimi is 15 again, watching the toss that marked a tyrant’s end (god’s fall) and all he can think is: that should've been me, <em>you should've waited for that to be me.</em></p>
</blockquote>or: kunimi watches one of kageyama's matches and pines
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kageyama Tobio &amp; Kunimi Akira, Kageyama Tobio/Kunimi Akira</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the composition of change</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i was actually planning on writing a tsukiyamma fic and then i got stuck and wrote this instead so hdjjddjdj—unintentional ode to kunimi</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There's a million miles between him and a boy that is more ghost than memory, edges faded with an expedition that invades his figure until his body is but a myriad of blurred colors. Kunimi is sitting at the base of his bed and there’s a memory playing in his mind like an old movie reel, sepia and vintage around the edges—it’s the feel of a toss set too high, or a toss set just right to a boy who doesn’t miss—slams it, scores.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s weight on his chest and a breath too short and disappointment creeping inside him like poison ivy, down his throat like the red berries moms warn you not to eat. And he thinks, envy may be green but red is always at its side—passion, anger, the tuft of hair as a wild card leaps and aims and brings a king to his knees—to his level, tug-a-war tug tug tug but even though the rope falls, they don’t feel the win until their first rematch, and by then—it’s their downfall.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He replays a memory and replays an emotion, a hope, a dream, a long pining want that stretches and pulses years later, a thought he’s buried and hidden in crevices and forced to fit into the empty pockets in his skin where a volleyball once rested; a thought he pulls back up from the depths, drowns in. Kunimi is 15 again, watching the toss that marked a tyrant’s end (god’s fall) and all he can think is: that should've been me, <em>you should've waited for that to be me.</em> He is a question mark boy once more and he wonders: what about his laughter and their bumps shoulder to shoulder—knee to knee—fingers passing caramels, smiles in the dark and eyes closed together in silence; what about <em>him</em> was not enough to change for? Was he too little, too folded, too not enough to be something worth adapting for? There's a voice in the back of his head and it whispers the answer he already knows: <em>passion</em>, it says, is the spark he always lacked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>During his time at Kitagawa Daiichi, determination seemed to him a plague; he imagined, that when God wrote the sins of humanity, he must have forgotten, that to sin you must first have drive—action, motivation. Non-negligible, he'd thought, but this can be fixed. Kunimi can write his own bible to a boy-king, boy-god, boy-setter—can burn determination into his bones because if he’s going to worship a sinful god he will do it right. And there’s a fire in his veins that still sings devotion even when a boy says <em>i</em> instead of <em>we</em> and <em>‘im not free today,'</em> his silence meaning addendum, meaning, I forgot to tack on: <em>‘or tomorrow, or ever’</em> instead of <em>‘let’s take a break, we can fix this.'</em> But Kunimi doesn’t have high marks in literature analysis for nothing, and he understands the character of his best-friend-turned-ash and thinks; one day a phoenix will rise, he'll just never be able to be the spark. And in the end, it’s only fitting that another myth is what burns him—a small giant all 5 feet something tall and red red red. Kunimi is 15 again and he watches a boy transform like Pluto, like the nine on his back, and oh does he fly—the drop is so high now and all Kunimi can do is fall—his feet have never felt closer to the ground.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>(—Kageyama extends his hand and it feels like a lifeline and a boat overturned. There's waves in his eyes and Kunimi falls deep, grasps those fingers in a vy to stay adrift—takes them, and exchanges one sea for another, even though he knows this one will drown him sooner. There's a familiarity to this pull, a nostalgia that Kunimi would liken to his childhood home. Finite. Fracturing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>The fingertips on the inside of his wrists feel butterfly soft in the same way as lips. Eyelashes call the veins of his arm pollen and then a mouth stands on his wrist as if it were a petal. It feels like the beginning of a question, a sentence that writes him as the rose and asks to treasure him. But it ends like a cliff and all of a sudden a question is abandoned and a sentence is spaced backwards—erased. </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>The little butterfly flutters so softly, flies away like it was burnt, parting to continue it's flight path of migration and the flower knows it'll never hear the sentence punctuated, never see it's return. The air is so simultaneously heavy and empty that the only thing left for the rose to do is try to twist itself in such a way it might fill the question mark sized hole.)</em>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>These days Kunimi is an ever-constant student to the art of origami. He moves and his bones crinkle, wood pulp replaces his marrow—there’s a paper quality to his bones; an unwritten story of a changing being.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He teaches himself how to fit into a mold, hide his creases—there’s a hand on his shoulder that he eases into and does it fall too deep? There’s fingers on his wrist and they sink sink sink, his skin is something to press—are they here to crumple him? Open him? Maybe he wants to be unfolded but he’s attached to this form and he can't afford to let them see the tears he’s acquired over the years.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pressure has always been his best friend, but it breaks him all the same—there’s weather worn pockets that exist between his lines and he’s not sure if they harken to the ghosts of fingertips or the reminder of a curve his hands once molded to fit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s a persistent sense of empty pocketing his skin—an ache for ache—the thud of round leather across his forearms, thrown back to the sky—or the thump of congratulations on his back. His body waits for these things in the silences of academic life—misses the camaraderie and the adrenaline and the rush. They call this a high and he calls himself an addict, but it’s not the sport he’s taken with, rather, it’s dealer. All 6 feet of raven hair and unyielding mountain and crystal ice eyes—Kunimi stares at them and he wants to know how much pressure he would have to apply to shatter them, shards as his replacement for tears (but he knows that wouldn't satisfy him).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kunimi wonders what a god can think of it’s creation, wonders if he had turned the same shade of green when Kunimi painted himself in determination and smiles. But there's an ocean and a television screen between them now and while Kunimi can ask questions to this hologram imitation, he knows, like always, there will be no response. He knows the boy doesn’t hurt, doesn’t feel the needles or the ivy and Kunimi may pine, but he will not shed himself for an empty prayer. He takes one last indulgent swig, and then tears his gaze away (off).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Click.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the click is him turning off the game btw! can't tell if that's clear or not sorry</p>
<p>tysm for reading!! &lt;33</p></blockquote></div></div>
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